


i've been in love with you for ages (and i can't seem to get it right)

by akosmia



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, oblivious idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23515141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akosmia/pseuds/akosmia
Summary: "I guess–" She doesn't know why she keeps talking – maybe it's the wine loosening her tongue, or maybe she wants Ben to know, she can't tell. She only knows it's surprisingly easy, trusting him with her deepest secrets. "I never had someone to take care of me, and that's what I miss the most. What I want out of a relationship. Feeling like there's someone whocaresabout me".-- or: Rey misses the little things of a relationship that make her feel like there's someone who cares about her. Her best friend Ben listens.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 172
Kudos: 676





	i've been in love with you for ages (and i can't seem to get it right)

**Author's Note:**

> this silly thing was was inspired too by this prompt on the amazing [reylo_prompts](https://twitter.com/reylo_prompts) twitter: _"Rey hasn't dated much, but longs for the little things like having someone to cry with while watching national dog show, buy her fave cereal, make fun of her freckled knees, save old clothes for oil rags... whatever. Her best friend Ben listens."_. I changed things a little bit because, as usual, I have no control over anything I write and also, it was supposed to be fluffier, but I don't know why every time I try to write from Rey's pov I end up with what I can only describe as _feral yearning_.
> 
> Forgive me? ♥

It starts, as the best things usually do, with a drunken conversation. 

"And it's not like–" she's saying, her hand wrapped around the glass of wine Ben has poured her earlier. It's probably the third or the fourth one, but she's not actually sure and maybe it's better this way. She really, really doesn't want to know. "I mean, I don't even _miss_ dating." 

Ben raises his eyebrows, a hint of curiosity in the familiar warmth of his eyes. "You don't?" 

It's Friday night and she's at his place for their usual movie night – a tradition from the early days of their friendship, when they'd bonded over their shared love for _Mamma Mia!_ – except that they're not really watching a movie this time. 

They're sitting on Ben's comfy sofa – she's repeatedly told him she might steal it someday, always eliciting the softest chuckle from him – and they both had a long day at work so when Ben offered her some wine before he put on the movie, she'd thought, _why not_ , which she has to admit now was not exactly wise on her part.

Anyway, that's how they ended up here, God knows how many glasses of wine later, utterly hammered – or, better, Rey is utterly hammered, because trying to outdrink a six-foot-three muscled _giant_ may not be the brightest idea she's ever had, while Ben is doing fairly okay. The _audacity_ of him – and somehow discussing her love life, or lack thereof. 

That's not much of a topic, anyway. At least, not when the reason for her nonexistent love life is sitting right beside her on this couch, with his soft eyes and his full lips and the way his face melts into a smile that makes her heart flutter in her chest every time. 

It's not like she _wanted_ to fall in love with him – he's been her best friend ever since his cousin Jannah first introduced them years ago at a party and she didn't want to fall for him like the idiot she is, despite how obviously dazed she was by him the first time they met. 

It's hard not to feel like the wind has been knocked out of you, when Ben exists – he's so tall and broad and beautiful, the kind of handsome that makes your stomach drop and makes you kind of delirious in the most delicious way, and yet he's also so devastatingly soft and gentle and understanding that he almost looks like a dream conjured into existence by romance novelists. 

But somehow, between one deep conversation about the impact of ABBA on pop music and the other over the course of countless nights at the bar with her friends, he became her best friend and she swore off any lingering feeling she might have from the night they met and she was happy just to be in his life and she didn't want anything more. 

Until she did. 

It happened without her even realizing – something that had been building up and up day after day with his soft smiles and the warmth in the back of his eyes and the way he seemed to relax when she was around, until it finally sprung on her, a flower suddenly bursting into bloom, and she'd come to the realization that she was very much in love with her best friend. 

She's _tried_ , really. She's gone on dates and tried her best to forget him, because Ben obviously sees her as his best friend and nothing more, but she can't help it – it's like a magnetic pull, and she can't resist him, not when he looks at her like that. 

Like the whole world spins around her. Like she's the reason for the whole universe to exist. Like the freckles on the bridge of her nose are his favorite piece of poetry. 

"Nope," she replies, then, taking another sip of her wine, feeling extremely light-headed and dazed in the best way. "Honestly, it's a pain in the ass. You– you have to change yourself into– into something that matches another person's idea of you and it always feels like you're trying to sell yourself–" 

"That's a sad way to put it," Ben interrupts her, tilting his head to the side and furrowing his brows, as if deeply troubled by her words. There's a wrinkle between his eyebrows that only appears when he's puzzled by something and she's been dying to smooth it with her fingertips for _ages_. 

She rolls her eyes, even if she feels her lips curve into a smile. "Yeah, yeah, I know you believe in the fated meeting of souls and all of that, you're a _romantic_."

The thing is – he _is_ a romantic. He always puts on rom-coms when it's his turn to choose the movie and he weeps when they watch _Titanic_ , even if he tries his best to hide it. He's got three different editions of _Pride and Prejudice_ on his bookshelf and can quote it from memory at any given occasion. He's the one who ended up teary-eyed when Rose told them Jannah had proposed. 

All of which makes the fact that he just doesn't date even _weirder_. He's born for romance – he clearly longs for it, and honestly she's kind of envious of the person who'll be on the receiving end of _this_ , because he's probably the most considerate, attentive boyfriend ever. 

She can't figure it out, for the life of her, _how_ he's still single. 

He snorts at her words, but his lips twitch in the most adorable of smiles as he stares down at his glass. "You say it as if it were an _insult_."

"It's _not_. It's wonderful, Ben, really, and you're _adorable_ –" He blinks and tries to say something, but she continues, caught in her drunken rambling. "But I'm not– I just– I don't like dating," she explains, shrugging, opting for not telling him the reason why she doesn't like dating in the first place is because usually the people she goes on dates with have the huge, unredeemable flaw of not being _him_. "But I miss– I guess I miss the other stuff." 

Ben blinks her in. He isn't quite as drunk as she is, because she supposes being so tall and broad ( _so broad_ , her addled mind reminds her, _like a redwood tree_ ) probably makes you hold your liquor better, but she can see a bit of color on his usually pale cheeks and he has a somehow dazed and laid-back look about him that he rarely sports on a daily basis, always so tense and nervous as if he were on constant alert. 

"You mean–" he says, frowning. "Sex?" 

Maybe it's the alcohol in her system that's currently making her delirious, but she swears she sees a hint of _something_ on the sharp lines of his face – something that almost looks like _want_. 

"No!" She clears her throat, her face suddenly flushed red. A few images she usually tries her best not to linger on swirl in her brain, and she's way too drunk to put a stop to it and for a moment she _wonders_ – "God, you're such a _boy_ ," she manages to say, in the end, her voice uneven to her own ears. 

He lets out an indignant gasp. 

"Excuse me," he tells her, pretending to be offended, his eyebrows raising dramatically as he brings a hand to his chest in a gesture he probably borrowed from Poe. "I am a _man_."

 _Yeah_ , she catches herself thinking as her gaze falls on his wide shoulders and toned arms hidden only by his plaid shirt, _you definitely are_. 

She takes another sip of wine, praying the gesture will hide the way she's furiously blushing right now.

"Yeah, whatever. No, I don't mean _sex_ ," she replies, looking at anything but him. Ben, bless his soul, is completely unaware of the amount of filthy places her mind has visited in the span of a few minutes and just _stares_ at her, genuinely curious now. "I mean– the other stuff. The little things. The things that make you think _Oh, there's someone that cares about me_."

This seems to elicit his interest, because he tilts his head again and stares at her intently, as if he could understand her only by looking at her face. Sometimes she thinks he can – it often feels as if he's taken his time to memorize her in some other existence and by now he can read her as easily as he'd read his favorite book. 

It's excruciating, in the best way. 

"Oh," he breathes out. It's so _soft_ – it's barely a whisper in this dim living room, but she feels his breath ghosting against her skin for the briefest moment and she suddenly realizes how close they've got ever since they've sat down, as if her body naturally inched closer to him, following him as a sunflower follows the sun. "What do you mean?" 

She bites down her bottom lip before answering, her fingers toying with the rim of the glass as if to do something – as if, if left to her own devices for too long, she could reach out for his hand.

"I don't know. Someone to make me breakfast in the morning or hold my hand through the scary parts of a movie," she murmurs, drumming her fingers against the cool surface of the glass, smoothing the nonexistent creases on the throw pillows, running a hand through her hair. She's nervous, as if terrified by the idea of making herself vulnerable with him.

She suddenly feels hot, and her throat is dry, and Ben is just looking at her like _that_ , as if he were taking _notes_ and she knows it's crazy, but she can't stop the yearning thing in her chest that comes alive when Ben looks at her. 

"Someone to text me to make sure I've got home safe or to watch baking competitions with me while I'm on my period. Someone to lend me their jacket because I'm cold even if I haven't said anything. Someone to tease me for my eating habits. I don't know– I guess, I miss these little things, you know?"

Ben nods, quietly as he does anything else and he looks so _intent_ – and she tries, she really tries not to get her hopes up because it's pointless and she's only setting herself up for heartbreak, but maybe she's drunk and tired and he looks like he _cares_ and she can't stop thinking that maybe he does. 

"I guess–" She doesn't know why she keeps talking – maybe it's the wine loosening her tongue, or maybe she wants Ben to know, she can't tell. She only knows it's surprisingly easy, trusting him with her deepest secrets. "I never had someone to take care of me, and that's what I miss the most. What I want out of a relationship. Feeling like there's someone who _cares_ about me."

There's a moment of silence that feels way too significant for a drunk night between friends, and then she groans, bringing a hand to her face as if, in a regression to earlier stages of development, she could avoid being seen just by not seeing.

"God, I'm a _sad_ drunk," she says, wrinkling her nose in irritation. "You probably think I'm pathetic–" 

"I don't," Ben says, immediately, his voice steady and reassuring and warm as always. "I don't think you're pathetic. I think you're very human."

She looks at him through the gaps in her fingers. "Oh?" 

There's a small, tender smile on his full lips and Rey thinks – she's never seen him smile like this, so _softly_ , so _gently_ , as if this smile were a secret he was whispering in her ear. 

"Yeah. You search for a connection, I think that's a very human thing to want," he says, with a gentle shrug. He brings his free hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it pensively as he furrows his brows in concentration, as he always does, she's learned, when he's trying to find the right words for what he wants to say. "I mean, life is frankly a frightening experience. It can get weird and twisted and terrifying and so _chaotic_ and we all yearn for a connection, someone who can make all of this less terrible and can make us feel like we're not drifting through it completely alone. I think, ultimately, what we all search for is a hand to hold on to."

The way he _talks_.

God. It reminds her why she fell in love with him in the first place – because he can say the most beautiful things without even realizing, spilling poetry into her life as if pouring golden light everywhere, and he doesn't even _know_ what he's doing. How he changes her life by simply existing. What a mess he's made of her. 

She blinks at him. "Oh," she breathes out. The wine is finally getting to her, making her head spin, and she doesn't know what to say – other than she loves him, she loves him so much it feels like it's pouring out of her eyes every time she looks at him, and the only hand she wants to hold on to is _his_. "That's–" she mumbles, her eyelids fluttering shut for a second or a lifetime, she can't tell. "That's a beautiful way to put it." 

He chuckles and – _oh_. Oh, it's such a warm, soft sound and it almost feels like he's lulling her to sleep, wrapping her into the softest, warmest blanket of the world. Her eyes suddenly get heavy, her eyelids fluttering shut again, and before she knows her head falls forward on Ben's chest. 

"M' sorry," she hears herself murmur, but she's not sure he's heard her. 

What comes next is a blur of colors and sounds dancing between her senses. There's a sharp intake of breath and then a soft exhales and then – then, she's vaguely aware of Ben prying the empty glass of wine out of her hand, and wrapping an arm around her shoulders as if to gather her against his chest. She follows him willingly, nuzzling against him, his chest so solid and real underneath her, so disarmingly comforting in its firmness. His fingers run up and down her spine as if to soothe her in her sleep and she can hear the gentle rhythm of his heart underneath her cheek. 

It feels like home. 

Just as she's about to fall asleep, she thinks she imagines him whispering, softly, against her forehead, "I could hold your hand." 

*

She wakes up to a pounding headache and the smell of bacon coming from the kitchen. 

It takes her a few minutes of blinking in her surroundings to realize she's not in her bedroom (because the room she's in is way too clean and tidy to be hers), and another few minutes of racking her brain trying to find an explanation to remember she's in Ben's bed, with no idea of how she ended up here. 

The other side of the bed is perfectly made – which means he hasn't slept here at all, a fact that makes her both glad and disappointed at the same time, her heart twisting unpleasantly in her chest. When she raises herself to a sitting position, she notes she's still wearing yesterday's clothes – a baggy sweater and a pair of jeans –, with the exception of her shoes and he wonders if she's fallen asleep face first into his bed without changing or if he's carried her here and let her clothes on because he's a gentleman.

A groan falls from her lips as she rubs her temples, feeling like she's holding an exploding star right inside her skull.

She vaguely remembers last night – she knows they've been drinking and that somehow they ended up discussing her love life because apparently that's a thing Drunk Rey likes to talk about, who knew. But she has no idea of what happened next or how that conversation ended or even how she found herself into Ben's bed without Ben.

It's the smell of bacon that gets her out of bed. She lazily gets up, trying to fix the duvet as best as she can, then paddles toward the source of the smell, her mouth already watering because no matter how awful she feels, food is food. 

She finds Ben in the kitchen, working at the stove. He's wearing a black t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants and is sporting the worst case of bed – well, probably couch, all things considered – hair she's ever seen, the black strands she dies to sink her hands into sticking out in all directions. He's humming under his breath what sounds like a Taylor Swift song and suddenly her heart is growing too big for her chest, beating so loudly she wonders if it's alerting him of her presence. 

"Morning," she says, groggily, in the end, as she rubs her eyes.

Ben looks at her over his shoulder and his lips curve into the softest smile she's ever seen as soon as he notices her standing there. It feels almost – intimate, with the casual way he looks at her, the ease of it all, the fact that it's morning and she's just woken up in his bed and she's in his kitchen and none of it feels out of place. 

"Good morning," he tells her, cheerily. He looks so absurdly happy, as if having her around in the morning were the highlight of his day. It makes her chest go awfully tight. "Slept well?" 

She nods, then curses herself because her head is now pounding again. "Yeah. I don't remember–" she starts, massaging her temple with her finger. "Did I fall asleep on you?" 

He chuckles, a warm sound that fills the tiny space of his kitchen and makes her heart flutter pleasantly in her chest. He looks back at the stove before he burns his breakfast and Rey takes a minute to admire him in all his glory – messy hair and comfy clothes and that vulnerable look about him that only comes up when she's around, as if he trusted her with a secret part of him he never shows to the world. 

She thinks this might be her favorite Ben. 

"Yeah, you did," he replies, his smile so easy to hear in his voice even if his back is turned on her. "I tried to wake you up but you were so out of it I had to carry you to bed."

Somehow, this elicits both a pang of deep embarrassment for how she basically fell asleep on him in the middle of a conversation and a flare of anger at herself for being so out of it she's missed Ben carrying her in his – probably very strong – arms, an event that will probably never occur again. 

She runs a hand through her hair, letting out a frustrated groan. "God, I'm so sorry," she says, in the end, embarrassment and guilt over what happened winning their pointless battle with her disappointment. "I'm an idiot. You didn't have to give me your bed, I'm sorry–" 

He turns into her direction only to give her a stern gaze. It's clear that he's trying his best to be serious, but he looks so soft and so genuinely happy that he doesn't really manage and this somehow makes her heart grow even bigger in her chest. 

"Don't be absurd, of course I'd give you my bed, I'm not a _jerk_. Plus, I was perfectly fine on the couch," he adds, shrugging. It can't be the truth, mostly because his couch, while very nice, is probably not big enough to accommodate his long, long legs and he couldn't have been really comfortable folded on it like he probably had been. Still, he doesn't say anything. Instead, he tilts his head to the side and flashes her a warm, tentative smile. "How are you feeling?" 

Her head still feels like someone had stirred all her thoughts with a wooden spoon in a very messy manner while she was asleep, but being in Ben's presence makes this day already better, so she can't exactly complain. She thinks she wants to wake up like this her whole life. She'd even accept the headache. 

"I've been better," she says, after a while, scrunching her nose. She's still rubbing her temples when she adds, "Remind me to never try to outdrink you again."

He chuckles, so softly. "I tried to stop you last night, but you're even more stubborn than usual when you're drunk." 

She scrunches her nose again. "Yeah, that sounds like me." 

The laughter he lets out is just as warm and bright as the first rays of sun filtering through the window and this looks like a dream, the kind of things she likes to imagine for herself – lazy mornings like this, the sun slowly warming up this little kitchen, Ben making her breakfast and smiling at her, the ease and the intimacy of it all. 

It feels so real she has to remind herself it's not. 

She clears her throat, stepping closer to him and peering into the pan. "What are you doing?" 

Ben turns into her direction with a tender smile that looks so – so _loving_ , as if he loved her the way she loves him.

"Making you breakfast," he replies, softly and then he just _looks_ at her.

There's something nagging at her – a vague tendril of awareness that is trying to creep into her thoughts at his words, as if to tell her to remember _something_ , to pay attention to _something_ , but she can't fathom what she should remember. It's probably just her hangover brain playing tricks on her, she thinks, but still, she can't shake that odd sensation of forgetting something important. 

Ben shakes his head, then, bringing his eyes back on the pan. "I know your breakfast of choice is dry cereals, which is a _crime_ by the way, but I thought you'd settle for eggs and bacon. I thought it could make you feel better". 

Oh. Oh, he's making _her_ breakfast. 

Somehow the thought never occurred to her. 

"Oh," she says, eloquently. She blinks at him, as if to make sense of it all, but the more she looks at him, the less this makes sense, because–

– because no one has ever made her breakfast before. No one has ever done something so sweet and unexpected for her and she doesn't know how to react, she doesn't know what to say, because what do you say to your best friend who's probably also the love of your life looking at you like that, so softly, and making you breakfast because he thought it might cheer you up after you drunkenly fell asleep on him? And it's not even about the eggs and bacon, it's just – no one has ever made it look like doing something for her was _normal_. 

She thinks Ben might be ruining her forever. 

"Hey," Ben calls her back to reality, softly. He's suddenly a lot closer and there's a hand on her shoulder, his thumb gently rubbing the skin over her collarbone through her sweater. "Did I do something wrong? Is the egg and bacon too much? Did I make the hangover worse or–" 

God, he thinks he did something _wrong_. 

This man. This silly, wonderful man. 

"No," she replies, just as softly. Her lips curve into a smile and she shakes her head, then regrets shaking her head. She winces and scrunches up her nose, bringing again a hand to her temple as if to explain him. "No, don't worry, it's just my head– it's killing me. Thank you for breakfast, though. You're the best." 

His eyes are still searching her face, but he smiles too, slowly, as if he were testing this out. His hand falls away but the lingering feeling of his fingers brushing against her clothed skin remains, like an aftershock. "Come on, eat something. There's probably an aspirin somewhere if you want it. Also, you can use my shower." 

Somehow, between it all, it's the best morning of her life. 

*

 **Ben (1.10 AM):** _Hey. Did you make it home alright? You looked tired when you left the bar._

She looks down at the text. It's late and she's tired and she's just come back from a night spent staring at Ben from across the table while she pretended to chat with Rose, so that's probably why she allows it – this warmth spreading in her chest as she reads his words over and over again. 

It's no big deal. It's just his usual text to make sure she got home – a thing that has been going on for years now, because Ben is caring and considerate and the best friend she could ask for, and no matter how late it is, he always checks if she's alright before falling asleep. 

And yet. She smiles, stupidly, before typing an answer. 

**rey (1.21 AM):** _yeah, just got in, rose and jannah gave me a lift_

 **rey (1.21 AM):** _thanks for checking like u always do, i appreciate it_

His reply comes instantly, as if he'd been waiting for her to text him. And _oh_ , the things it does to her heart, this thought.

 **Ben (1.21 AM):** _You're welcome. I don't want you to get murdered, otherwise who would tease me about me sobbing over The Notebook?_

**rey (1.23 AM):** _u like it when i tease u_

 **Ben (1.24 AM):** _I sure do. Goodnight Rey, sleep tight._

It's late and she's allowed to be foolish and her heart flutters in her chest as she imagines him whispering the same words against her forehead, his voice so low and deep it almost feels like being lulled to sleep. He'd press a gentle kiss to her skin, holding her against his chest as if holding something precious and sacred. She'd be asleep in his arms in no time. Safe. Cared for. Loved. 

She wonders how it would feel like, to be held like that by him. 

Then, she shakes her head, before her thoughts might have the best of her and she'd end up typing something she'd regret.

 **rey (1.28 AM):** _night loser see u tomorrow_

*

At some point between the third and the fourth jumpscare that makes her squirm on the couch and sink her nails into the throw pillow she's currently clutching in her hands – much to Ben's chagrin, she supposes – , Ben leans in. 

"Are you sure you want to watch this?" he asks her, gently, his eyes alternating between the TV and her face. He's so close she can feel his breath against her neck, eliciting goosebumps on her skin, and suddenly it's a lot more difficult to pay attention to the movie she's been watching between the gaps in her fingers for at least half an hour. 

Rey, being a stubborn fool, just scoffs and turns into his direction to flash him her usual, determined gaze. "Of course," she tries to say, acting nonchalant.

The thing is – he's so _close_. 

She hadn't considered that.

It feels like time stops for a moment, as if this instant stretched to infinity. The only sound she can hear is his breath, hitching on his lips the moment she meet his gaze, and her own, heavy as if in anticipation. His eyes linger on her for a minute and she – she wonders if it would be so bad if she just leaned in and kissed him. Softly, her lips barely brushing his, as if to finally find out what it feels like, to kiss him. She wonders what he'd do – if he'd push her away, his hands gently resting on her shoulders as if to soothe her despite it all, or if he'd let her. 

Or if, wonder of wonders, he'd kiss her back. 

If he'd gasp against her mouth and sink his hands into her hair and just _kiss_ her, kiss her so deeply she could feel it in her toes, kiss her as if to devour her, as if he couldn't stay away from her anymore, as if he'd been waiting for this his whole life–

A loud bang coming from the TV makes her jump on her spot and she turns into its direction, her heart hammering in her chest and her breath coming in small puffs, effectively ruining the moment – and probably preventing her from doing something very stupid. Something is happening in the movie they're supposed to be watching, but she's honestly stopped following the plot the moment Ben yawned and absent-mindedly stretched his arm on the back of the couch, his fingers brushing against her left shoulder. 

It's maddening. 

She loves it.

Ben lets out a little chuckle at her reaction. "We can watch something else."

She shakes her head, stubborn as always. "Nope," she replies, scrunching her nose. She doesn't know how to tell him that she chose to watch a horror movie because if she had to sit through another rom-com there was a high possibility that she might end up straddling him and kiss him senseless, because she was just that desperate and emotionally horny. So she settles for, "I want to see how it ends."

His fingers are so tantalizingly close to her skin she almost forgets to breathe, when he accidentally brushes against her arm. 

She doesn't pull away and her heart sinks the moment he does.

"How can it end?" he asks her, but it's clear that he's not expecting an answer from her. "It will probably end with the killer making a massacre of all the characters before getting caught and the main character, who's miraculously the only one alive, stare off in the distance as the dawn breaks." 

She can't help but giggle, turning into his direction again and raising her eyebrows. "That's highly specific." 

He laughs too, resting his head against the back of the couch. He's so close she can feel the vibration of his laughter and she leans into it, her body following his as if they were tied by a string.

"Please," he says, sounding a little bit breathless and making her shiver in the best way. "That's how most horror movies end." 

She swallows, even if her heart currently feels like it's trying its best to flutter out of her chest. "Don't be a snob."

His lips curve into that bright, dimpled smile she's been in love with ever since she first glimpsed it and he removes his arm from the back of the couch – she has to stop the whine rising in her throat at the loss – only to poke at her side, gently, the way he usually does. 

"I'm not a snob, I watch _Notting Hill_ twice a month," he reminds her, which makes her giggle, because it's true and it only makes her love him more. Before Ben appeared into her life, charming and awkward and so terribly tender and funny at the same time, she'd never met a man who was so unapologetically _romantic_. She thinks that's part of the reason she felt drawn to him in the first place. "I was just wondering if you wanted to watch something else."

"No, it's–" 

Another loud bang from the TV, another jump from her. Her heart is now beating so frantically she wonders how it's even working and she regrets all her life choices. She curses Ben Solo and his stupid smile and the way he looks at her, for making her fall so hard she had to retort to horror movies to stop herself from kissing him silly. 

Ben lets out a soft, exasperated sigh, then shakes his head, as he often does when he has to deal with her being stubborn self. The thought makes her feel weirdly warm, as if knowing him so well were a privilege she'd been granted. 

"Alright," he murmurs, then, and before she can say anything or ask for an explanation, he stretches out his arm and his hand lingers in the small space between them, before finding hers.

He intertwines their fingers carefully and slowly, as if he wasn't sure he was allowed, and his eyes never leave her face the whole time he does, studying her reaction and Rey – God, this comes as a revelation to her, the way his hand feels in hers, the way his palm seems to dwarf hers, the way his fingers can soothingly rub her skin and make her relax in his grip. It feels – heavenly.

His lips curve into a hesitant little smile when he notices the way she relaxes. "Better?" 

She's temporarily forgot how to speak, so she just nods and hums staring down at their hands, but it seems enough for him, because he relaxes too, his shoulders sagging against the back of the couch, his lips curled into a tender little smile that makes her heart skip a few beat.

There's something in the back of her mind that tells her to pay attention to this moment, but she can't figure out what it is.

They spend the rest of the evening like this and Rey pays no attention to the TV at all, but she thinks horror movies have suddenly become her favorites.

*

"Just so you know, I'm on my period and I feel miserable," Rey announces, when she opens her door on a rainy Monday and finds Ben on the doorstep, dripping water on her doormat, one tiny drop at time. 

He's – well.

There's something about a Ben Solo utterly drenched in the rain that does _something_ to her heart, and her hands itch to push away the strands of hair currently plastered to his forehead in the cutest way. She also wants to run her fingers down the firm planes of his chest, unexpectedly visible through the soaked fabric of the t-shirt currently clinging to his skin. 

It's a tough duality to grapple with. 

He has the audacity to _smile at her_. It’s soft and hesitant and beautiful and he looks like a soaked puppy, with his warm eyes and the way he looks at her. It kind of makes her lose her train of thoughts for a moment and she forgets to ask him what he’s doing here in the first place, because she was not expecting him at all. 

"Yeah, I can see that," he replies, raising his eyebrows and intently looking at her, as if to study her. Then, he frowns, his lips pressed together in a tight line. "You look terrible."

She rolls her eyes, but steps away from the door to let him in. "Thank you, Ben," she tells him, scrunching her nose, even if she can’t really hide the way her lips are twitching in a smile at the sight of him. She can’t help it – he makes her day brighter just by being _there_. "You really do know how to make me feel better. I'm so lucky to have you as my best friend."

An undignified snort slips past his lips as he shoulders past her and easily makes his way around her tiny apartment, as if he belonged here somehow. He does, in a way – he’s been here countless times in these past few years, and she’s gotten used to the sight of him in her cluttered living room, sitting on a couch that’s definitely too small for both of them. It feels like home, when he's around, as if he filled the apartment with his presence, the warmth of his laughter, the softness of his gaze. 

She notices he’s holding a paper bag that looks surprisingly small and mercifully spared by the rain in his hands and he drops it on her kitchen table, before pushing his wet hair back from his face with a shuddering breath. 

It shouldn't be attractive, but somehow it is. Even if he's currently dripping water all over her apartment floor. 

"I brought you something," he tells her, then, turning into her direction as soon as he hears her footsteps.

His face turns even softer when he notices her standing next to him, and she recognizes the familiar spark of warmth in the back of his eyes, but also a tentativeness about him that makes her heart twist helplessly in her chest. 

He looks almost _sheepish_ , as if he didn't know if he were allowed here, which is the weirdest thing ever, because he's her _best friend_ and he's been here so many times this place is kind of his, too. 

She blinks him in, trying to make sense of his words. "What?" 

He exhales, softly, in what sounds like a little exasperated laughter, before shaking his head. 

"Here," he replies, gently, retrieving something from the paper bag and handing it to her. He's so close she can smell the scent of rain on his clothes and she wants to live in this moment for the rest of her life. A single drop of water is slowly making its way from his lashes to the edge of his jawline, making her delirious. She wonders what it would feel like to kiss it away. If he'd _shiver_. If he'd _gasp_. If he'd tell her to stop. "I know you love these when you're on your period."

It takes her a moment for her to work through the surprise of having him so _near_ and look down at what she's currently holding in her hand, wrapped in her fingers where Ben left it. It's a couple of chocolate bars – milk chocolate, with hazelnuts, her snack of choice for when she's on her period and she’s feeling grumpy and irritable. 

"Oh," she says, blinking back the tears she feels welling in her eyes even if she doesn't know why. Ben just stands there, his hesitant gaze on her, and she sucks in a shaky breath, alternating between looking at him and staring at the chocolate in her hand. 

It’s just – it's such a _considerate_ gesture, so sweet and unprompted and she can't wrap her mind around it. They've been friends for years and she knows Ben cares about her wellbeing and he'd do anything to make her smile because he's just that kind of person, the kind of person to give everything he has for someone he cares about, but somehow it still takes by surprise, his kindness.

She doesn't know what to say, because she hadn't even invited him over or asked him to bring her chocolate, she was just texting him to tell him she was feeling sore and grumpy because of her period and he just–

– apparently, he had thought the best course of action was to drop by in the middle of a thunderstorm just to hand her a couple of chocolate bars because he knew she loved them. It's such a _Ben_ thing – it wouldn't look out of place in the final act of a romantic movie, and she'd laugh, if her heart wasn't racing in her chest, fluttering crazily. It's a lot more than what she's used to. 

She suddenly feels cared for. She doesn't know how to deal with this feeling. 

He frowns at her reaction and there’s a hint of concern in the deep brown of his eyes, on the beautiful lines of his face. She realizes with some sort of shock that he looks _afraid_.

"Did I get the wrong brand? I'm sorry, I thought–" He swallows, then, and he bites down his bottom lip, running a hand through his wet hair. A few droplets of water run along his jaw, tantalizingly distracting. "I thought it could make you happy."

 _You make me happy_ , _you wonderful idiot_ , she wants to say. 

"Ben," she whispers, more softly than she'd intended to. His eyes snap to her face when she utters his name, as if she had surprised him somehow, and he parts his lips, but no sound comes out of them. "It's– you got the right brand, and it's perfect and I– I'm just– You rushed here in the rain just to bring me chocolate?" 

He runs a hand through his hair again. "Well, you make me sound _crazy_ ," he replies, his cheeks turning a faint shade of pink and his lips curling into a tentative, breathtaking little smile that comes as a revelation to her. 

Her hands itch to trace it with her fingers. To follow the line of his full lips with the pads of her fingers. To discover if his mouth is really as soft as it looks. 

She raises her eyebrows, but she can't help the stupid, maddening happiness bubbling inside her chest every time he's near, feeling elated just because, among countless people, he's picked _her_.

"It's _raining_ ," she repeats, pointing out at the storm outside her kitchen window, as if he could have somehow forgotten about it, as if he wasn't still very drenched from the downpour he'd been caught in. 

He shrugs, his wet t-shirt sticking in a very revealing way to his skin as he does. 

"And you sounded like you were pissed, so–" He buries his hands into the pocket of his jeans and looks down at his shoes and the puddle he's currently standing in, the red still high on his cheeks. He looks both awfully adorable and terribly attractive and Rey loves him so _devastatingly_ much she can't seem to wrap her mind around it. It almost feels like _too much_ for her body. "I also bought some painkillers and the cereals you love to munch on, which is absurd but anyway. And– I thought we could watch some old rerun of _The Great Chandrilan Bake Off_ , if you wanted to? I know that's what you usually like to do when you're on your period."

Her heart does a weird thing in her chest and she's suddenly breathless because – this _man_. This utterly ridiculous, incredible man, who can tease her for days about her lack of cooking skills and bicker with her for her how much sugar she pours into her coffee for a whole afternoon and then turn around and be so disarmingly gentle and caring and loving, and Rey doesn't think she'll ever love someone the way she loves Ben, so easily, as if loving him meant finally coming home. 

"Yeah, that would be–" She frowns, then, looking at him in confusion. Ben frowns too, as if surprised by her reaction. "Wait, how do you know?" 

Surprisingly, his blush deepens and he looks positively crimson now, a detail she finds oddly endearing. "You–" He swallows, then does the mouth thing he usually does when he's wondering how to finish the sentence without putting his foot in his mouth in the process. "You kind of talked about it when we got drunk at my place, last time."

She blinks once, then twice as if to digest the information. She vaguely remembers that night, but she's not sure how her watching baking shows during her period even fitted into a conversation that she's distantly aware centered around her lack of love life. She's not sure she wants to know. 

"Oh, I didn't–" She shakes her head, then looks at him again, puzzled. "You don't even like watching _The Great Chandrilan Bake Off._ You said baking competitions drive you mad because they do everything all wrong." 

He lets out a little exasperated sigh and he looks weirdly determined, when he tells her, "But I like spending time with you."

Oh. 

There's nothing she can say to that. It makes her heart _soar_ in her chest, turning her into a lovesick teenager.

“All right,” she replies, then. 

The smile he gifts her – bright, dimpled, boyish and so utterly _beautiful_ – is even better than the chocolate he's brought her. 

*

By the time she finds Ben, the wedding reception is in full swing – the expensive porcelain plates have been carefully cleaned and the glasses of wine have been emptied, toasts have been made and awkward speeches have been recited, and now most of the guests are swaying more or less gracefully to the music in a swarm of bright colors under the light of the lanterns in this garden.

Rose and Jannah are at the center of the dancefloor, both looking stunning in white and so blissfully happy Rey’s heart twists in her chest, in a way that she doesn't know if it's painful or not. Still, despite the yearning thing in her chest, she's happy for them.

Ben, quite predictably, is standing at the edge of the garden, as far away from the crowd as he can.

His hair falls slightly on his face, brushing against his forehead, caressing the sharp line of his cheekbones, and the light coming from the lanterns casts a soft glow on him, making him look ethereal and beautiful, the kind of beautiful that brings tears to your eyes and frightens you a little bit. 

She’s already seen him before – she’s spent the whole ceremony watching him, after all, and he'd smiled at her from across the room when they'd sat down at their tables –, but there’s something about him standing there, in his sharp suit, his hands in the pocket of his slacks, that makes her heart skip a few beats. He looks like a movie star and Rey – Rey is acutely aware of how much in love with him she is.

“Hey,” she greets him, as soon as she reaches him. 

He turns slowly into her direction and his lips twitch into that familiar smile of his – soft and tender and dimpled, the kind of smile that never fails to make her weak in the knees.

“Hey,” he replies and he looks so genuinely _happy_ to see her, as if she had made his night better just by being here. Then, his eyes fall on the dress she’s wearing – a deep green, sleeveless thing that seems to be made of the silkiest fabric ever invented, flowing through her fingers like water – and he takes a deep breath, before raising his eyes and whispering, “Forgive me my lack of originality, but you look beautiful."

Oh. Oh. 

This man. Seriously.

Her pulse quickens under his gaze and she can _feel_ the way a blush spreads on her cheeks. She feels almost dizzy, as if the world had suddenly started spinning incredibly fast.

“You– you’re very forgiven,” she replies, then. It comes out breathy, _low_ , and she can see the way he reacts – his eyes widen for a fraction of second, then he gulps and lets out a shaky exhale. She tries not to let it go to her head, but for a moment she _wonders_. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

His usually pale skin turns crimson, in the most adorable way. The moles scattered all over his face stand out darker like this, and she dies to connect them, to feel his heated skin under her palms, to know what it feels like to press a kiss to the dimples in the smile he’s now gifting her.

He rubs the back of his neck, then, staring down at his fancy shoes. “I thought you were dancing.”

His eyes fall on the dancefloor, where all their friends are dancing, or trying to at least. She’s not actually sure if what Finn and Poe are doing is considered _dancing_.

The thing is – the only person she wants to dance with right now is the man standing in front of her.

“Maybe later,” she tells him, then she tilts her head to the side and gives him a teasing look. “If you’re up to it. I must tell you, it’s dreadful that you’re keeping yourself from dancing. The gentlemen are scarce and there’s more than a young lady sitting down without a partner.” 

He throws his head back when he laughs and he’s so beautiful to look at – it’s like he relaxes, the way he usually does when she’s around, and the tense lines of his muscles ease up in something softer. 

It’s fascinating to watch, this kind of magic.

He runs a hand through his hair, making a mess of it and making her heart quiver in her chest in the process. “You can’t force me to dance with a _Pride and Prejudice_ reference. It’s not _fair._ ”

She pokes his side, just to have an excuse to touch him. “I can and I will,” she replies, eliciting another heartfelt laughter from him. “What’s the point of a best friend if not to blackmail you into doing the things you hate?”

There’s something about seeing him like this that tugs at her heart. She loves the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, the little webs of lines that appear at their corner, the dimples on his cheeks that she’s been obsessed over ever since the night they met. She looks away from him, before doing something foolish like surge forward and press a kiss to his beautiful lips, still curved into a breathtaking smile.

“You’re the _worst_ ,” he tells her, but there’s so much fondness in those words that she can’t find it in herself to feel insulted. She’d gladly accept Ben telling her that, if it means she can hear him being so _affectionate_.

She scrunches up her nose as if to pretend to be offended. “That’s what you signed up for when you decided to befriend me.” Her words are laced with the same fondness and when she meets his gaze, his eyes are so terribly _warm_. Maybe it’s a trick of the lanterns, but she almost sees a hint of longing, in that familiar brown shade. She clears her throat. “By the way, I was talking to your uncle Lando. He’s such a charming man, I didn't know.”

At this, he lets out a pained groan and brings a hand to his face, as if to hide the way he’s quickly turning crimson. “Please,” he moans, his voice muffled by his hand. It makes her shiver for reasons that are not entirely innocent. “Tell me he hasn’t told you all about his shenanigans with my father.”

It comes as a revelation to her, the fact that she enjoys watching him getting all flustered. It's such an entrancing sight – he blushes so prettily it makes her heart clench in her chest, as if he'd suddenly poked at it.

Probably that’s why she adds, “Actually, he was telling me about the times you burst into a room buck naked with a power drill–”

He groans again and takes his face in both hands, as if he could hide like this. This giant, broad, muscled man – trying to hide behind his own hands, as if he could disappear.

He’s ridiculous. She loves him.

“Shut up,” he mumbles. She can’t see his face, but she can glimpse the tips of his ears, crimson red by now, peeking through the disheveled mess he’s made of his hair and she feels so stupidly _in_ _love_ it's kind of silly. 

A giggle slips past her lips without her even realizing. “Don’t need to be so embarrassed,” she tells him, relishing in the way he looks positively flustered now. “I’m sure you were a lovely kid–”

“Don’t say another word–” 

"The cutest kid in the world, running around naked and–" 

" _Rey_." He says her name as if it was a sacred word, tinted with both exasperation, fondness and worship, and she thinks this is her favorite way to hear her name spoken out loud. She wants Ben to whisper it for the rest of her life, wants this moment to never end. 

She giggles again. "Sorry," she says, shrugging, because she's not sorry at all, and they both know it. "I like teasing you."

He snorts, letting his hands fall down and pointedly looking away from her. His ears are still red, which makes her only fall in love with him more. "Yeah, I noticed." 

A comfortable silence settles over them as they watch the garden all around them. It's a quiet night toward the end of spring, warm enough for the reception to take place outside, even if a gentle breeze is starting to rise, making the flower dance gracefully against the starry sky and eliciting little shivers from her, wrapped in her flimsy dress a she is.

She's hugging her middle, biting down her bottom lip to avoid chattering her teeth, when she feels an unexpected warmth on her shoulders and then–

Oh. 

Ben looks down at her, softly, as he places his suit jacket on her shoulders. It’s so big it basically falls past her waist and it clashes terribly with her dress, but she can’t find it in herself to complain, because he’s staring at her like _that_ , studying her with the same attention and concentration he’d reserve for one of his books of poetry, and her throat goes dry, her mind blanking. She can’t think of anything else except for _him_.

"Here," he murmurs, his voice almost a caress against her ear. He's suddenly so _close_ and she can smell his cologne. It makes her dizzy, her head spinning. "Take this."

It's – oh. The jacket doesn't do much to protect her from the cold, but it's warm and it's his and it's _perfect_ , and Rey wants to never let go of it. 

Still, it's an old instinct, to fight this – this bottomless abyss inside of her that _wants_ , that _wishes_ , that _aches_ to be taken care of, for once. "You don't have to–" 

Ben lets out a soft chuckle, one laced with so much fondness it makes her heart jolt in her chest. "I know," he tells her, raising his eyebrows. His lips curl in that tender smile of his that he seems to reserve for her only. "It's no big deal. You're cold and I can do something about it. And I _want_ to do something about it because– I care. About you. I care.”

She doesn't know what does it – if it's the way he talks or the tenderness in the back of his gaze or the words falling so gently from his lips, she's not sure. She only knows she looks at him and suddenly she's not in this garden anymore, but on his couch, in his apartment, slurring over her words, pouring her heart out and telling him–

_That's what I miss the most. What I want out of a relationship. Feeling like there's someone who cares about me._

It suddenly clicks. 

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” she breathes out. 

The shock is so easy to read on his face and it would be comical if she weren’t on the verge of an emotional breakdown. He blinks her in, then frowns, the familiar wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. 

“What is it?”

She feels a hysterical laugh bubble in her chest, but she tries to swallow it down. 

"Fuck, I just remembered–” There are tears welling in her eyes and she feels suddenly so terribly foolish for letting herself fall into this. Into this terrible habit of wanting to be loved. Of wanting to be loved by _him_. "This is about the things I told you back at your apartment, isn’t it? The things I missed, the things I– I wanted from a relationship."

Her suspicions are confirmed by the way his shoulders slump and he looks away from her, stepping back as if he’d been burned, but the thing is – she didn't want to be right. She didn't want this to be something he did because he felt like he needed to, because he didn't want her to be sad, because she'd rambled about it while drunk and he was so fucking _kind_ that he thought he could give her the things she missed out of a relationship. 

It kind of breaks her heart and puts it back together, only to break it again. 

This wonderful, devastating man. 

"Yeah," he says, in the end. He buries his hands in the pocket of his slacks and looks at her, his hair falling slight over his eyes. There's a faint blush on his cheeks and he looks even more embarrassed than before, as if caught doing something he shouldn't. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable, I'm sorry. I just wanted you to feel like there's someone that cares about you."

It's more than anyone has ever done for her in her whole life – it's more than anyone has ever _cared_ , honestly. She should be happy. She should be grateful. She should just take what she can and settle for this. 

But she can't. Not when she wants to be loved by him so desperately.

"You're very kind," she replies, with a sad little smile. Ben snorts and shakes his head, but before he can say anything else, she continues, because if she’s got to have her heart broken, it has to be on her terms. "And– I appreciate what you were doing but you don't have to do this. I don't need your pity."

A meaningful silence falls on them, interrupted only by her deep breaths. Ben blinks once, then twice. He opens his mouth, but he says nothing – he just _stares_ at her as if she’d just uttered an absurdity, his eyes wide and his jaw slack and shock written all over his beautiful face.

"Pity?" he asks her, as if the word made no sense in his mind. He swallows audibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, then runs a hand through his hair, letting out a shuddering breath as if hit by a blow. "You think I'm doing this out of _pity_?" 

She shrugs. "Why else?" 

And Ben–

He steps closer, again, and his eyes glitter like starlight against the night sky when he murmurs, softly, "Because I love you."

His hands come to grab the lapels of his jacket to fix it on her shoulders and he just _looks_ at her, infinite tenderness pouring from his eyes, as if he hadn't just changed her whole world. "Because I've loved you for years and the thought of you not feeling cared for when I care so fucking _much–_ " 

There's a pained look on his face, as if the thought were a knife to his heart and Rey – she can't wrap her mind around that, because being loved by Ben is such an impossible thing to accept, because she's spent what it feels like a lifetime thinking he could never love her back and now here he is, telling her he _loves_ her. 

“And it’s not like–" he continues, unaware of the mess he's making of her right now. He's so close she can hear the frantic beat of his heart in the space between them, a jittery thing under his dress shirt, and she dies to press her hands on his chest just to feel it underneath her palms. "Fuck, I’m not trying to _trick_ you into loving me, it’s not what this is about. You just– you said you missed feeling like there was someone taking care of you and I wanted to be that someone, even if you didn’t love me back. I've always cared, Rey.”

He's breathless by the time he finishes and he just _stares_ at her, his chest heaving, his eyes fixed on her face. He's so _close_ – she can feel his breath on her face, can sense the way his chest rises and falls against hers, can see the unshed tears in his eyes. 

She can _feel_ the way his hand trembles when she reaches out and laces their fingers together. 

He gasps. It’s such a loud sound in the silence around them, and it pierces her heart, because he sounds so – so _surprised_ and _frightened_ at the same time, as if her touch could burn him. His eyes fall down to her hand, so small compared to his own, and yet stubbornly wrapped against his, and Rey watches the way he shakes when her thumb comes to stroke his knuckles in a slow, gentle movement.

It fills her heart with tenderness. 

"You know, there's a reason why I don't date," she tells him, looking at their joined hands. She never realized how perfectly their fingers fit together, as if both of them were made for this – for this quiet spring night in a garden, the light of the lanterns bathing them in a soft glow, and her heart turning into a fluttering creature of hope in her chest. 

He blinks at her, surprised by the sudden change of topic. His voice is still shaky, when he replies, as if he were trying his best to avoid crying. "Yeah, because you think you have to match some other person’s idea of you and–”

“No." Before she realizes what she’s doing, she steps even closer. They’re a breath away, and she can see all the shades of brown in his wide eyes, can feel the way his breath hitches on his lips the moment she smiles at him. "I mean, that too. But there’s a more important reason.”

He gulps, and it takes him a moment to talk.

“What reason?” he asks her and he looks utterly dumbfounded and yet _hopeful_ , as if he couldn't really believe her and yet he wanted to, so _desperately._

“Because I love you,” she whispers, softly, her eyes never leaving his face. The words hang in the air for a moment before he reacts. He just _stares_ at her, blankly, and the fear starts creeping in and that’s probably why she nervously adds, “And I– I was scared of telling you because you’re the most important person in my life and I didn’t want to lose you and–”

Her words suddenly die in her throat because he–

– he's kissing her. And, _oh_ , it's so much better than she'd imagined – his lips are so much softer when he presses them against hers, his hair is so much silkier when she sinks her fingers into it, his hands so much warmer when he brings them up to her face to tilt her head backward and kiss her so deeply she feels dizzy and silly and thoroughly incoherent. 

“Oh,” she stupidly says against his mouth, when he slowly pulls away to breathe, and he has the audacity to _laugh_ , as if he hadn’t just kissed her senseless and rendered her speechless.

A little awestruck smile makes its way onto his lips, when he murmurs, “You love me.”

Even if he says it as a statement, she can hear the question in his words, as if he couldn’t make sense of it, as if he couldn’t understand how he ended up living in a universe in which she loves him. She can hear it, because she feels the same.

So she does the only logical thing to do – she raises up to her tiptoes and presses another kiss to his lips. He's so quick to wrap his arms around her – as if he'd been waiting his whole life for this moment, this second, this kiss – and kisses her tenderly and desperately at the same time, as if he couldn't get enough of her and Rey suddenly feels so _loved_ it brings tears to her eyes. 

“I do, I love you,” she tells him, softly, then, and he sighs against her, relaxing in her embrace when she loops her arms around his shoulders and pulls him down to rest her forehead against his. He fixes the jacket back on her shoulders, and it's such a caring gesture she feels her voice shake, as if from unshed tears, when she speaks again. “Remember that night at your apartment, when you told me we all search for a hand to hold on to?”

He searches her eyes, when he replies, “Yeah. Of course.”

She lets one of her arms fall away, her hand travelling down until it finally finds his. She laces their fingers together again, so easily, and curves her lips into a small, tender smile. “Yours is the only hand I want to hold on to.”

He squeezes her hand and doesn’t let go for a long, long time.   
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> friendly reminder that i'm also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/akosmia) and [tumblr](http://kylorensx.tumblr.com) if you want to chat or vent or anything ♥ i plan to write the fluffiest fluff to ever exist in these weeks of lockdown, so you'll probably see me around again very soon ♥


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